The sell-out has burn trails in his bedroom.He contemplates burning his rent.But he brings his lighter-fire to hiswanting lips and decides to just disappear.Oh, in his future memoir he'll write ofhis old uncle who said god damn righthe'd demand the death penaltyif some sick bastard did somethingto his kids. Oh, he'd write, "Well uncle, whatif your kids had blood on their own hands?"

450

The passport smells much like athesis statement. The currency's shapedlike his eyes. And the fireman, he can'thelp but ask, "Where are you plannin' ongoing this time?" "I'm going forsure where things disappear," hereplies, "Yeah, I'm crossing the stateline." Michigan, Michigan, you areno longer mine.

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